


Got lucky

by TheFierceBeast, VioletSmith



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Banter, Bears, Biting, Blow Jobs, Bottom Crowley, Crobby - Freeform, Dirty Talk, Dom Bobby Singer, Dom/sub Undertones, Fight Sex, Fighting for Dominance, M/M, PWP, Play Fighting, Rimming, Rough Sex, Spanking, Stripping, Sub Crowley, Top Bobby Singer, hot bear on bear action, masochist crowley
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-05-01
Updated: 2017-05-01
Packaged: 2018-10-26 08:11:25
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,993
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10782918
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TheFierceBeast/pseuds/TheFierceBeast, https://archiveofourown.org/users/VioletSmith/pseuds/VioletSmith
Summary: Crowley's smile would charm the devil himself. "I think there are much more interesting things I could put in my mouth.""That so?" For his part, Bobby's mouth goes suddenly dry. He covers it with a swig of bourbon, straight from the bottle of Kentucky Gentleman he's holding. "Such as?"Crowley takes a slow sip of his drink. Bobby's eyes are caught by the movement of his throat when he swallows. "I'm sure we'll think of something.""Barrel of my shotgun gets my vote." He mutters. Crowley's brows raise, his smile tilting, slow and sweet as molasses. The sagging couch protests as Bobby slumps back down onto it. Crosses his legs at the ankle, feigning nonchalance under Crowley's heated hazel gaze."Kinky. I like it." Crowley sounds delighted. Pervert. "I'll put my mouth on your big weapon any time, love, just say the word."





	Got lucky

He can tell he's there even before the jackass has shown himself or spoken. The hackles go up on the back of his neck, a prickly kinda feeling, like ghosts but not. He's had it ever since Hell. Bobby lowers his copy of Cyprian and pushes his reading glasses on top of his head, frowning at nothing. "Don't you ever knock?"  
  
"Knocking is rather pedestrian. Don't you think?" It's always the same chair Crowley appears in, sitting cross legged and insouciant on the rather well-worn upholstery. "I prefer to make more of an entrance."  
"Yeah. If by 'pedestrian' you mean 'well mannered' and by 'entrance' you mean I can smell your Eau de Bad Eggs a clear mile off." Bobby marks his page, fastidiously, with an old Lotto ticket and sets the book aside, glasses on top of it. "What do you want?"  
Crowley settles back in the armchair. "Sit down, Crowley," he says, voice dripping with sarcasm. "Can I offer you a drink. How was your day." He rolls his eyes. "Honestly, it's like you're not even happy to see me."  
"I ain't blown any holes in you, have I?" Bobby rolls his eyes. But he hauls himself up from the couch anyways, over to the sideboard to grab another glass from amidst the tottering piles of papers and strictly-necessary junk. "By all means. Take a load off. I s'pose you'll be wanting to insult whatever I offer you and drink your own supply as usual?"  
"Darling, even I am not enough of a masochist to drink the swill that you drink." Bobby glances over to see Crowley raising a hand - by the time it reaches his mouth it's holding a crystal tumbler full of amber fluid.  
It never gets old, that trick. Bobby narrows his eyes and sets the mismatched glass he's holding back down on the scarred cupboard top and wills himself not to find it hot. His voice when he speaks is satisfying gruff and uncompromising. "You sure about that, Severin?"  
Crowley's smile would charm the devil himself. "I think there are much more interesting things I could put in my mouth."  
"That so?" For his part, Bobby's mouth goes suddenly dry. He covers it with a swig of bourbon, straight from the bottle of Kentucky Gentleman he's holding. "Such as?"  
Crowley takes a slow sip of his drink. Bobby's eyes are caught by the movement of his throat when he swallows. "I'm sure we'll think of something." His gaze flicks down to Bobby's hands, and Bobby is reminded very vividly of the last time Crowley visited. Sam and Dean had been staying and it was late, after they'd gone off to bed, when Crowley had blinked into existence in his living room. They'd had to be quiet, so as not to wake the boys, and Bobby had jammed his fingers in between Crowley's eager lips to muffle the sounds he made.  
"Barrel of my shotgun gets my vote." He mutters. Crowley's brows raise, his smile tilting, slow and sweet as molasses. The sagging couch protests as Bobby slumps back down onto it. Crosses his legs at the ankle, feigning nonchalance under Crowley's heated hazel gaze.  
"Kinky. I like it." Crowley sounds delighted. Pervert. "I'll put my mouth on your big weapon any time, love, just say the word."

  
_He should whip it out, right now, is what he should do._ Bobby grunts, distracted. _His shotgun. He's thinking about his gun._ Never mind how these late night visits of Crowley's invariably end - in fact, he can count on one hand the amount of times it's _not_ ended up in a tussle on this very couch, struggling to get the upper hand, yanking at one another's clothes. Bobby clears his throat. Shifts awkwardly, his dick starting to take a pre-emptive interest. "If you're so set on hanging about, how's about you put your mouth to chatting like civilised folks?" Your dirty, talented mouth.  
Again that smile, and his eyes shining like he's laughing at some private joke. "And what do civilised folks like to chat about, Robert?"  
_Western folklore. World politics. Russian literature. Japanese cuisine. Take your pick. We already know how this ends. Or is it just how you want it to end, Singer?_ "Well, I dunno." Bobby injects every ounce of sarcasm he can into his tone. "How's the weather in Hell these days?"  
Crowley chuckles into his glass. "Bit of a warm spell." He looks up coyly over the rim, all whisky-eyed. "How's the day job? Did the boys sort out that little problem they came to you about?"  
He could punch him. He really could. Yeah, that's exactly what he wants to do to the smug asshole: Bobby's palms itch. His cock twitches, lazily. "Oh, yeah. Sure they did. But it's _my_ little problem I'm more worried about, hotshot. Next time I'm just gonna gag you with your tie."  
Crowley seems unaffected, in contrast to how the blood pulses that little bit hotter in Bobby's veins at their exchange. But he shifts forwards in his chair, as if he can't help wanting to be nearer. "Promises, promises."  
"Mouthy, ain't ya?" Bobby leans forward too, in what he hopes is a confrontational more than an interested way. "Tell me again why I shouldn't be tossing you out on your ass right about now?" _Because, any excuse to touch you, and a fight's the best one._ Bobby takes another too-long slug from his bottle, hopes it'll drown the thudding of his pulse. It's strange, with this demon. Arousal all muddied in with the particular kind of fight or flight adrenaline kick he usually associates with a hunt. Because Crowley isn't safe. Crowley isn't to be trusted. But Crowley is cunning and witty and experienced and warm and he's right here in Bobby's back room making wisecracks about blowjobs.  
"You're welcome to try, human." Crowley says the word _human_ like it's an endearing pet name. The same way he says _kitten_ and _sweetheart_.  
"Is that right? And you call _me_ out for being rude." He could try. He could give it a damn _good_ try, except for he's altered his wards so it's _easier_ for the smirking little spiv to drop in and annoy him. Bobby wonders, briefly, about busting out an exorcism, just to see the look on the son of a bitch's face before he royally kicks Bobby's ass with his magic, but it's not worth it. Not when all he really wants is to... "Get out." Bobby stands, takes another fortifying swig of liquor. He looms satisfyingly over the still seated, utterly nonplussed demon, in a way that would clearly communicate menace. To a human.  
Crowley only lounges back in his seat, gazing up at Bobby, his eyes glittering dangerously. "Make me," he purrs.  
  
He feels good. Even just from burying his fist in a handful of tailored jacket as Bobby hauls him to his feet, Crowley feels good. Rare and powerful in a way that makes Bobby's hands long to get on him, like an arcane manuscript or a priceless fetish. But not entirely like that at all: in a way that makes Bobby ache to get his _mouth_ on him, to sink his goddamn teeth in. Crowley jerks like a rag doll, and his pricey booze slops out over his pricier shoes, which is satisfying in its way, but the bastard is still laughing softly, his eyes bright with merriment.  
"I should make you lick that up," Crowley says, and his voice rumbles through Bobby like thunder. He's limp in Bobby's grasp, in a way that must be purposeful given how easily he could toss Bobby off him if he wanted to. So this is a _choice._ A choice to be weak in Bobby's too-aggressive grip. A tease, maybe.  
"Then _make me_ ," Bobby parrots, a deliberately terrible parody of Crowley's accent. He tightens his grip, lifts experimentally to feel Crowley rise up on tiptoe, all but pressed against him.  
"Would you like that, darling?" Crowley's voice is a sultry whisper. "Would you like to be forced?" He goes up higher on his tiptoes and licks a slow stripe up Bobby's cheek, tongue damp on the overgrown stubble and the only thing, the _only_ thing Bobby can do to wrestle back the upper hand is to turn his head and catch the little bastard's mouth with his, dominating an angry kiss. _Would you like to be forced?_ that unassuming purr makes his belly go hollow in a way he doesn't want to inspect too closely right now: he gives Crowley a taut shake, just to drive his point, like a terrier with a rat in its jaws.  
  
Crowley's mouth is warm and sweet, but before Bobby has time to enjoy it he’s wresting himself out of Bobby's grip, and then there is only fierce, sharp pain as the back of his hand hits Bobby across the mouth. The angry ache of a fat lip. The challenge in Crowley's eyes.  
"You son of a..." Bobby catches a wrist in each hand, feels Crowley struggle - all put-on, all for show. Cos Bobby sure could take him physically but that means squat when he could literally disappear in a blink. Tonguing his swollen lip, Bobby squints daggers. Crowley's smirk is edging towards that stubborn pout he gets and damned if all Bobby can do is kiss him again.  
  
Crowley's more demanding this time, sucking at the place where Bobby's lip is hurting, chasing the metal taste of blood and groaning when he finds it like an addict taking a hit. It stings like Hell, but anything that makes Crowley more pliant gets Bobby's vote, so he goes with it. Sinks into it, deep, his tongue pressing into that sweet, hot mouth that tastes of good Scotch and bad decisions. His hands tighten around Crowley's wrists because he can. Because he likes to feel that token struggle, taste the murmur of protest against his lips. He cusses when Crowley bites at his lip - not a soft nip, nothing teasing about it: Crowley bites and doesn't let go until Bobby wrenches his mouth away. Wraps a hand around the demon's throat instead of his wrist. "What's gotten into you tonight?" Sure, they tend to play rough. But this feels like a new kind of intent.  
Bobby feels a sharp intake of breath through the throat under his hand. "Nothing. Yet." Crowley winks. When he swallows, the fluttering of his throat makes Bobby think of obscene things - the way that throat fits around him, like it was made to swallow him down.  
"Oh yeah? That a proposition, princess?" He squeezes, gently, experimentally, and Crowley stutters another gasp, his lashes fluttering. Smirks like the cat that got the whole goddamn aviary.  
"Just a suggestion. _Sir._ " Crowley presses closer, so that the fronts of their bodies come into contact. Bobby can feel the heat of him through that fancy suit, and just the suggestion of the lines and curves of the body underneath it and his belly does an honest-to-Betsy _flip_. It could be just more teasing, but it sure does feel like Crowley handing over the reins and this is one ride Bobby is definitely on board for. No way to tell without testing. Bobby pushes him, lightly in the chest and Crowley stumbles back a couple steps, seems genuinely surprised, as Bobby settles once more on the coach, legs spread comfortably wide. He nods, indicating. "Nice suit. Take it off."  
  
Crowley straightens his collar, slow and obvious, and stares at Bobby insolently, as if challenging him. _Make me_. He licks the corner of his mouth, which is swollen from the force of their kisses.  
"I'm sorry, didn't I make that plain enough for ya?" Bobby tilts his head, questioning. Crowley's gaze is like a diamond tip drill bit and he holds Bobby's stare unbearably as Bobby raises his chin and spreads his arms along the back of the couch, determined. His guts do that same, lazy roll again: this feels like poking a python with a stick.  
Crowley's eyes roam all over him, hungry. Ravenous. When Crowley speaks, his voice has gone dark - like the weather turning overcast and ominous in an instant. "Perhaps I need you to spell it out for me."  
"Well, here I thought you were quicker on the uptake than this." It's taking all of Bobby's willpower to stay in his seat. To still the instinctive jogging of his right leg. "Strip. And none of that Mary Poppins crap." He mimes snapping his fingers, vaguely. "I wanna see you. Don't make me ask again."  
"Why? Will it make daddy angry? Will I be sent to bed without any supper?" Crowley smirks, but he's already loosening his tie and unbuttoning the collar of his shirt. The jacket slips to the floor with a heavy, silky murmur. The tie goes next, slipped deftly through those big clever hands and flung into Bobby's lap. A clear message. Bobby's dick strains, pressed uncomfortably down the leg of his jeans, but he's too on edge to adjust himself. Crowley's fingers linger on his shirt buttons, baring his broad, furred chest inch by inch. Sure, in the past they've tugged each other's clothes off before they've tugged each other off, but it's always been just that: quick, crude, lights-out. "Hold it." Immediate obedience. Bobby's hard-on throbs. "Leave the shirt." He likes it like that for now, hanging open, all dishevelled-like. A curt nod. "Pants off. And the rest. All of it." Bobby wets his lips. His mouth waters. "I got your supper for you right here, sweetheart."  
  
Crowley toes off his shoes. Bends to slip off socks. Undoes his trousers. "Are you sure you've got enough for me? I'm very hungry."  
"Get down here and see." If he doesn't jizz in his jeans before they even get started. Bobby presses the heel of his hand against his aching crotch. Crowley looks like sin, all hooded dark eyes and hefty shoulders, his snug black boxer briefs tented obscenely. "Ah-ah," Bobby shakes his head. Nods at the aforementioned underwear. "Slowly. Keep me interested."  
Crowley licks his lips again. Tucks his thumbs into the waistband and tugs it down achingly slow, so that Bobby's mouth feels dry by the time it slips over Crowley's hard dick, exposing him. Crowley palms at it, his underwear still bunched beneath the heavy softness of his balls. "Like what you see, pet?"  
"You'll do." Bobby's voice comes out rougher than he'd like. He can feel it: his heartrate's actually picked up, pulses an insistent thud thud thud in his throat and temples and between his legs. Crowley looks as desperately hard as Bobby feels, all thick and sticky and blushed deep rose and damn if Bobby doesn't just wanna drop to the carpet and get his mouth on him. But that's not for tonight. One hand finds the button of his own waistband, flicks it through. "Come here. On your knees."  
  
Crowley sinks to his knees so smoothly it seems impossible to contemplate the idea that he's not done this before. He holds eye contact all the way down. "Your wish is my command." He crawls forwards like a tiger, like something beautiful and deadly, and the words stick in Bobby's throat _fuck, you look hot right now._  It's very clearly not the role he's playing tonight. So he watches, forcing his face impassive even as he can feel his cheeks heating up to a blush. One hand tugging his fly open, and, "Here you go. All-you-can-eat buffet." His fingers clench in the back of Crowley's hair, tug his head back, and Bobby doesn't miss that appreciative little hiss. "No teeth."

  
Crowley doesn't take his eyes off him as he wraps his sinful lips around the head of Bobby's cock, but he makes a throaty sound. A sound of pure self-indulgence. "That's it," Bobby tells him, coaxing him to take it a little deeper with a firm hand on the back of his head. He feels the plush muscle of Crowley's tongue flicking out to lick at him, to stroke him as he's held inside the heat of Crowley's mouth. "Fuck, that's nice." His hips strain up of their own accord, pleasure winding tight already. Crowley lets him set the pace. Lets him thrust, harder than Bobby would risk with any previous partner, his hand guiding, fingers stroking through Crowley's soft dark hair.

 

By the time Crowley pulls away his eyes are glassy and his mouth is red and wet from use. "Have I told you recently that your dick is a work of art?" He leans in and tongues at the end of it, the pink tip of his tongue trying to force its way into the hole.  
  
Bobby catches his breath with difficulty. Moves his hand to rest heavy at the nape of Crowley's neck. "An' they say romance is dead." He looks gorgeous like this. Near naked on his knees, mouthing at Bobby's cock where it stands proud out of his fly. And this ain't so unusual for them: he's never been undressed with Crowley, has never seen him fully nude; but suddenly he wants it, real bad. They've fucked a couple times, but it's always been the same: Crowley straddling him, part clothed, riding his dick like he's little more than a fancy sex toy. Bobby shuffles back on the couch, pushes him away. "Up." He says, and Crowley's eyes light up. He moves to climb up onto Bobby's lap, going to straddle him as he likes to do. "No." His hand tightens, on reflex, at Crowley's nape and the spark that ignites in those golden eyes makes Bobby land him a light slap across one cheek, just to see.  
  
The breathless little _uhn_ Crowley makes at that is obscene. Undeniably sexual. He closes his eyes and his entire body shudders. "Do it again," he breathes, nuzzling into Bobby's hand. There's a redness starting to bloom on his cheek where Bobby hit him - Bobby can't look away, hypnotised by it. "Please," Crowley begs, almost silently.  
  
Bobby says, "No," at the same time as he complies, a slightly harder slap that makes Crowley's head snap a little to the side, his eyes slipping closed and mouth dropping open. "On your feet."  
  
When Crowley gets to his feet it's not with his usual cat-like grace. He even staggers a little, like maybe the alcohol's made him tipsy - which seems unlikely. Bobby steadies him, a hand on his elbow. "Upstairs." Crowley glances at him, quizzically. Crowley has never been anywhere but the kitchen and living room before. An unspoken agreement, like a stray cat Bobby lets into his house but won't allow onto the bed. Bobby tucks his hard-on back into his shorts, grips Crowley a little too roughly around one arm and hustles him towards the stairs.  
  
He's unsteady enough that he goes without protest, and there's something satisfying about having the King of Hell a little wrong footed, following wherever Bobby leads. He wonders how far he could push it. How far Crowley would let this go before stopping him. How far Crowley _wants_ this to go. The thought goes straight to his dick. Crowley's ahead of him on the stairs, so that his main view is a broad, black-clad back, but on every step up he gets a glimpse of the soft swell of Crowley's ass, and it's lending credit to Crowley's frequent bragging on the subject. It's weird to have him this docile. This quiet. When they reach the bedroom Bobby has to push down those self-conscious feelings: this is his private space. And he's not tidied. To Hell with it. "On the bed."  
  
He flips on the electric light, and somehow it only makes Crowley's eyes glitter more when he climbs onto the unmade bed and kneels on it, staring at Bobby with one eyebrow raised as if to say _What now? What will you do with me now you've got me?_ And even when he's this willing and silent, kneeling there in just his shirt with his dick jutting out all needy, he's still a little intimidating. All diabolical and terrifying and opulent at once, like a towering inferno at the Ritz. Bobby bends, retrieves a coil of rope and both of Crowley's eyebrows shoot up, then. Testament to the job that Bobby keeps this shit under his bed and it's not even intended for anything fun. _Originally_ at least.

"Face down. Now."

Crowley takes a deep breath, his gaze fixed on the rope in Bobby's hands. "What if I say no?"

"Do you wanna say no?" Bobby flexes the rope between his hands. Pulls it taut with a resonating crack.

Crowley smiles, and it looks every bit as predatory and disconcerting as a smile from a demon should. "I want you to not bother asking."

"You are every kind of messed up, you know that?" It's barely out of his mouth before Bobby is kissing him again. And it's hard and filthy, all thrusting tongues and scrape of teeth, as Crowley yanks Bobby's jeans down to his knees, takes him in hand. "Uh-uh." He goes easy when Bobby wrestles him down onto the bed, just bucks and writhes with no force behind it, making a show of it. "Flip over, or I'll do it for you."

"Oh," Crowley gasps. "Oh, darling, yes. Do it." He presses against Bobby's grip like he's testing it, like he couldn't break Bobby's arms in half with his magic. "I want you to do it."

Bobby's guts do that dropping thing again. But he's so used to the fight that it's all virtually second nature. Transferable skills: he gets a hold round Crowley's hips, rolls him, pulls his arms back behind so he can tug his shirt off, quick and efficient. Crowley's hips lift, rubbing himself against the mattress. "None of that." Damn but he feels delicious. All hard muscle underneath those smooth curves, and Bobby can't help but dig his fingers in, pinning Crowley's hips to the bed, aiming a hard smack to the back of his thighs.  
  
Crowley groans like an animal. And he's always teased that he's into this sort of thing, this masochism. He's always trying to shock people with it, flirtatious too-dirty hints thrown out just to get a reaction. But this is the first time Bobby's seen the truth of it, the way Crowley really does seem to get some kind of sick thrill out of Bobby hitting him. "Fuck, yes," Crowley says, and he sounds all fucked out already. "Yes, hurt me. Punish me. Come on, show me how big and strong you are."

"You want that, huh?" Bobby leans down, over the bed. Murmurs in his ear as he runs one open palm down Crowley's back, over his ass. "You wanna sit on that throne of yours tomorrow, in front of all your scumbag subjects, and still feel me?" The slap he lands on the back of one thigh makes Bobby's palm tingle, makes his dick jerk, yearning. He's never been one to enjoy hurting another person, but seeing how much Crowley enjoys being hurt? That he is enjoying.

"Yesss," Crowley hisses, his face screwed up in what might be pain or pleasure. "Give it to me, you know I can take it."

"Oh, I know you can take it." He has enough memories of Crowley's touch to keep him warm all winter, but this... Bobby sits back, admires. "Damn, you're a peach." The King of Hell really does have a heavenly ass, pale skin dusted with downy dark hair, soft and rounded and downright perky. Bobby grabs a handful and Crowley gasps in another breath that turns to a moan when Bobby slaps him gently. "Harder."  
"You'll take what you're given." A sharper slap then, but to the back of one thick thigh: he doesn't want to beat that fine ass too soundly. He has other plans.  
  
He's good with rope. Again, comes with the territory and now's not the time to lament that his talents have mostly been squandered on tying demons to chairs when he's currently tying this demon's ankles to his bedstead. Crowley's legs are still demurely closed, but when Bobby taps his hip brusquely. "Up. On your knees." The tension in the rope forces them apart as he kneels.

Crowley struggles, as if he's trying to close his legs. He laughs, delighted, when he can't. "I knew you'd be good at this," he says, smugly, like he's taking credit for it.

"Damn right I'm good." It's possibly the quickest Bobby's ever shucked his clothes: beats his 'heater's bust and it's midwinter' dives beneath the duvet by seconds. He'd like to give Crowley a good thrashing just to hear the noises he'd make, but damn he can't keep his hands off any longer. The mattress creaks as he crawls between Crowley's legs, and Crowley arches his back, dips it, unable to move. "Look at you. Good boy. All spread wide open for me."

Crowley visibly preens under the praise, arching to give Bobby a better view. "All yours, love. Do what you like with me; I'm at your mercy."

"Mmmm." Bobby runs his palms up sleek inner thighs, thumbs tracing the velvety warm crease behind Crowley's balls before he palms each ass-cheek, spreads and displays him fully. The sight pulls an unwitting groan from Bobby’s throat, his too-neglected dick throbbing. It's beautiful torture to take it slow. He rubs a cheek against the curve of Crowley's ass, presses kisses, inhaling the scent of him. Grazes pale skin softly with the edge of his teeth. "I wonder, princess. D'ya bruise like a peach too?"

Crowley sighs, settling into Bobby's grip like he settled into the ratty armchair downstairs. "Try me."

The sound he makes when Bobby sinks his teeth into pristine flesh has Bobby palming his own cock. He runs his tongue over the bite: a perfect pink impression of teeth; not hard, but harder than he'd intended. "And what if I get a taste for you?"

Crowley falls silent a moment - just a moment. Then he drops his head to the bed sheets. "Then perhaps you'll have to keep me."

 

A different kind of feeling shudders through him at that: Bobby doesn't trust his voice not to shake, so he occupies his mouth with another soft bite on the opposite cheek, pinching the yielding flesh just enough that he knows it'll blossom to a bruise in the morning. And Crowley just breathes through this one, like he doesn't want the sound of his own voice to distract him from the sensation of Bobby's teeth. Then, when it's over - "Please... please keep hurting me."

 

It's an interesting feeling. The amount of times he's wanted to beat the snot outta the snarky little punk, but now, when he's quiet and sweet and begging for it... Bobby leans against the curve of Crowley’s hip. Collects his breath. His heart is racing. He places a gentle, open-mouth kiss on Crowley's tailbone. And then he unleashes a slap across the back of his thighs, as hard as he's able.

Crowley cries out, an ecstatic sob. Bobby's hand stings, and he's staring at the pale skin he just hit as it turns hot red. He touches it, feels the heat of it. Crowley honest to god _whimpers_. "If you're ever looking for a new job," he says, all husky-voiced, "then you let me know. I'm sure I've got a vacancy or two you could competently fill."

"There's only one thing I wanna fill right now." Crowley yelps when the next blow lands, backhanded on the opposite thigh. It's kinda addictive: Bobby's hitting his stride, no pun intended. Gripping the back of Crowley's neck, he pushes his face into the pillows. "Hold yourself open for me. Do it. Now."

Crowley's clumsy in his haste to obey, reaching behind and gripping the cheeks of his ass so he can expose himself for Bobby. He's got no self-consciousness about his body, no shame at submitting to a mere human. Bobby swallows, hard. "Fuck, you're pretty." Sweet and pink and neat. There's no need for finesse, not when Crowley's begging for pain: Bobby stuffs his tongue into him, moans at how tight. The noise Crowley makes is drunk-sounding and muffled by the pillow his face is buried in. His hips twitch, trying to shove back onto Bobby's tongue like he's greedy for it, and Bobby obliges, lapping long sloppy strokes, alternating fucking him with the point of his tongue and peppering his ass-cheeks and the backs of his thighs with bites.  
  
They've never done anything like this before. Nothing so filthy and intimate. Crowley's ass is wet with Bobby's spit, loose enough for him to slide a finger in beside his tongue. Crowley's incoherent, straining mindlessly against the rope. "Fuck me," he pleads. "Put your dick in me, do it."

"Crowley..." Bobby's voice comes out warning, but he wants it, oh lord how he does. He braces on one hand, body covering Crowley's. Lines up and presses his cock into tight, wet, heat: full to the hilt in one steady thrust. His pulse hammers and he stills, breathing hard, willing his orgasm to wait.

 

Crowley groans, opulent, and stretches - Bobby can feel the tug and shift of it inside him, and grits his teeth against the liquid pleasure of it. "You're a talented man, Robert," Crowley manages, and his words are a little slurred.

"High praise from a connoisseur." He sounds breathless. Every nerve ending zinging. Slowly pulls out an inch, fingers digging into the plush curve of Crowley's hips. He shunts in again, hard. "Damn, you feel good." Pulls out again, slow delicious drag. And Crowley meets him on the next stroke, pushing back against him, hard, setting a rhythm.  
  
There's nothing careful about it, nothing gentle. They're shoving against each other, aggressive and demanding, and Crowley's thighs are still hot from being hit - Bobby can feel the heat of it on every rough thrust as his hips smack against Crowley's ass. His grip must be bruising. Perhaps that's why Crowley is arching his back beneath him, panting. He's so soft inside. Sleek and wet, clinging so perfect around the girth of Bobby's thick cock. It feels like Bobby's forcing him open, even more so than the ropes keeping him spread: the thought makes Bobby moan, loud. Bracing on one hand he winds the other arm around Crowley's waist, groping just to feel him. The smoothness of skin and texture of hair. He locates a nipple - aroused already to a stiff little peak - and rolls it between finger and thumb, mouth trailing wet kisses, clumsy bites, across Crowley's shoulder blades. Every bite, every little taste of pain, has Crowley snarling through gritted teeth and clawing at Bobby's bed like a wild thing. It's such a change from his usual suave, sarcastic demeanour that Bobby hardly knows what to do with it. At Bobby's touch on his nipple, Crowley whines like a dog and stiffens. Then shudders all at once; big, full body shudders, until he collapses beneath Bobby. Limp and still. Bobby frowns. "Did you just..?"

"Try not to let it go to your head," Crowley sighs, settling into the blankets.  
  
He's a dead weight now in Bobby's arms, all heavy and sated and that shouldn't be so hot when Bobby's cock is still a hard insistent pulse buried deep inside him and _Crowley just shot his load with your dick in his ass_ \- Bobby clenches the muscles in his belly, wills his own climax off - you made _Crowley_ come first. "I won't. Don't think you're gettin' off lightly, princess." He withdraws, carefully. Has to tug down on his own balls at the sight of him, all stretched and tender. Reaching under the mattress, Bobby retrieves one of the knives he keeps stashed there, flicks it open. Lands a sudden little slap across Crowley's open, rosy hole.

Crowley twitches and makes the softest little noise of complaint, but he doesn't try to move away. "You don't have to stop."

"Wouldn't dream of it." He trails the flat of the knife blade across Crowley's skin, a cool path down his ribs, his thighs, just to hear his breath hitch with what might be uncertainty but knowing him is probably hope, before he severs the ropes binding Crowley to the bedstead with a few sharp tugs. Rolls him, unchallenged onto his back, and presses his knees up and out, settling between his thighs again. "I wanna see you. Your face. Wanna kiss you."

Crowley laughs; an exhausted, happy sound. "You old romantic." He's gently mocking, but still he tugs Bobby down to him, wanting kisses. Slower now. Less challenge, like Bobby's fucked the fight right outta him. Their tongues stroke instead of battle, hypnotic and leisurely. Bobby'd calmed down enough with their maneuvering that he's managed not to pop quite yet, but that's changing again, rapidly. His dick strokes the cleft of Crowley's ass in time with the motion of their mouths. Working him up again. Enough that when he slides just right, slips inside again, so easy and natural, and hears Crowley's gorgeous little moan all it takes is three hard thrusts and it hits him like an eighteen-wheeler for what he'd swear is a clear minute. Until he's shaky and spent and mixing kisses against Crowley's neck with murmured praise.  
  
"Robert Singer," Crowley sighs, and his fingers settle in Bobby's hair. All the tension has gone out of him, and he seems as near to peaceful as Bobby's ever seen him. "You're a man of hidden talents."

It makes Bobby's chest ache oddly, seeing him like this. So unguarded. He rolls to the side, pulls Crowley into his arms on a whim, and dammit if The King of Hell doesn't just snuggle right up without protest, throwing a leg over Bobby's so his fat sleepy cock is leaking against Bobby's thigh and Bobby doesn't even damn well mind. He squeezes him closer. Kinda a hug. "An' you're a kinkier devil than even I expected." His voice lowers. "That was... You're something else. About that job offer..."

Crowley chuckles. His eyes are closed, and his head rests on Bobby's shoulder. "Just say the word, darling. I'm sure we can find something better for you to do than being the Google of supernatural lore for any idiot hunter that asks."

"King's personal assistant?" Bobby brushes his lips against Crowley's forehead. Feels the soft tickle of hair against his cheek.

"Hmm," Crowley says, as if he's really considering it. "That has a certain appeal." He strokes the back of Bobby's hand, and goosebumps chase after his touch. "But it's a nasty job, I'm afraid. And Hell's a nasty place. I don't think you've the stomach for it, sweetheart."

"I didn't literally mean I wanna be your PA, jackass." He can't help his smile, is glad Crowley can't see it. "I meant... Ah, never mind."

"No, tell me." Crowley presses closer, looking up at Bobby from so near that he's just a blur of whisky eyes. "What did you mean? You want to be my _personal_ personal assistant, is that it?"

"Shut up." Bobby says. He can't keep the pleased tone out of his voice. Quieter: "Could think of worse jobs."

"And I can assure you the perks are fantastic." He kisses the edge of Bobby's mouth. It's surprisingly polite, given... what they just got up to.

"Yeah. Fantastically perky." Bobby noses at his temple. Wonders what the hell he's doing - _snuggling_ for godssakes - and decides he doesn't care. He's too bone-deep satisfied, warm and lazy. "You gonna show me your perks again sometime?"

Crowley stretches. Yawns, then looks surprised like it's caught him off guard. "Perhaps. If you're very lucky."

"Lucky. Riiiiight." Bobby laughs, a short bark. So lucky, to have caught a demon's eye. Although, heck, he does feel like he just got very lucky indeed.

**Author's Note:**

> Smaychel wrote Crowley, TheFierceBeast wrote Bobby. All the love to everyone who reads our ramblings.


End file.
